


Seasons Changing

by briaranise



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Human Names Used, Insecurity, M/M, Paranoia, Post-WWII, Pre-Cold War, Probably Historically Inaccurate, canonverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briaranise/pseuds/briaranise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The seasons change without fail. And Arthur knows that no matter what he does... this, too, will pass.</p><p>Or: Relationships between nations were never meant to work... were they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer

Arthur isn’t used to the silence.

He’s used to shouting, to sounds of sirens blaring and bombs exploding and the heartbreaking wailing of his people. He’s used to stiff military meetings, to the crackle of the radio reporting news from abroad, to the sounds of gunfire. But most of all, he’s used to having a loudmouthed American nation by the name of Alfred F. Jones with him constantly, badgering him and teasing him and cheering him up and generally being a loveable pest. 

The window to his left is still broken, but he supposes it can still wait to be fixed. He’s taped what little yellowed newspaper he can spare over it, and hopes that it is enough. At one point he’d collected piles and piles of old papers, but now most of it covers broken windows and the like. When it rains, the newspaper gets soggy and tears, but it’s not like he has much time to spend in this room anyway. The lights flicker then go out, and he sits still in the semi-darkness, staring at the strip of moonlight thrown across his lap and waiting patiently for the generator to kick in. It takes a little while longer than usual, but then again he’s not terribly good with mechanical things, and he’s not terribly concerned about the lack of light, anyway. Perhaps he’ll get Alfred to take a look at it next time he’s over. 

Arthur squints down at the embroidery in his lap, gingerly unpicking the soft green thread of the rose stems. He’s run out of that colour, and of most colours actually, but when his hands itch to pick up the needle and thread, he can’t help himself. He doesn’t want to go and buy more thread – doesn’t want to leave the house, doesn’t want to watch his people suffering any longer. So he reuses what thread he has lying around, sewing and unpicking and sewing again, until the white fabric of the handkerchief is thin and fraying. It’s a shame to waste the handkerchief, since he’s positive that it will be too worn and dirty to use after he’s done with it, but he’s sure that he’ll go positively insane without those soothing hand motions. This one is for Alfred anyway, so maybe it wouldn’t be such a waste. That boy never cares about small details like that; just the thought of getting something from the Englishman was enough to light up his face. But it wouldn’t be fair to give him something so worn, so thin and worthless and useless. Something so like Arthur himself. 

Alfred. That stupid, lovely, insufferably wonderful git had confessed his love for Arthur towards the end of the war. They had gotten into a very civilised discussion about some topic or another, which involved many insults, many physical blows, and more than a few tears. Then Alfred had jabbed a finger at the shorter man’s face and had shouted, “I still love you, you stupid old man! Just, differently to how I loved you back then. But I don’t love you any less. Hell, I probably love you even more now! Don’t you fucking understand that, you bastard? I love you!”

Arthur still isn’t sure how they went from arguments to confessions of love, but he isn’t complaining. Despite believing in fairies and unicorns and old folk tales where the characters live happily ever after, he doesn’t expect a happy ending for himself. He knows it won’t ever come, so he’ll take any speck of happiness that he can get. And Alfred grants him more than a speck. Alfred, with his golden hair and impossibly blue eyes and that stupid gravity-defying piece of hair and his million-dollar smile absolutely, utterly fills him to the brim with happiness, so much that he feels so light that he could just simply float away. Every time he lays eyes on him, his heart swells with love and he quietly admits to himself that it has always been Alfred. Could only ever be Alfred. 

He sips at his lukewarm water, silently wishing for tea but unwilling to use the last pinch of leaves left in the tin. Humming to himself quietly, he rethreads his needle and begins to re-embroider the twisting stems of the roses. A knock at the door breaks his concentration, and he pricks himself. A drop of blood wells out and, rather than stain anything with that sticky red substance, he quickly shoves his finger into his mouth. 

He hates the taste of blood. He’s tasted too much of it in the past years, from split lips and knocked out teeth and broken noses. He’d coughed it up during the Blitz, felt it slip through his fingertips and had smelt that awful, metallic scent–

“Arthur!”

The shout is muffled, but it startles him and rouses him from his reminiscing. He moves slowly towards his front door, feeling old and tired and worn out. He twists the lock out of habit; it had actually been broken when some of his more desperate citizens had broken into any houses that looked unoccupied that particular night, and he has yet to have it replaced. With a small sigh, he twists the handle and peers out at whoever is disturbing his peace.

“Hi!”

There’s a long pause, during which he stares, wide-eyed, at the American on his doorstep. He’s confused, for a moment, wondering if maybe he is actually asleep and dreaming, because there is absolutely no way that Alfred can be standing outside his door, smiling his million-dollar smile.

“A-Alfred,” he stammers finally, drowning in the intoxicating blue, wanting to smooth down that unruly blonde hair–

“Pleased to see me, huh?” the American chirps cheerfully. “I’m happy to see you, too. I’ve missed you, Artie!”

And Arthur hates himself, because all he can do in response is scowl and mutter, “won’t you come inside?” He hates himself because he can never be honest with his words, can never say what he is really feeling. But Alfred nods enthusiastically and bends down, hefting a large cardboard box into his arms. 

“What is that?” Arthur asks warily, blocking the doorway. 

“A surprise,” the taller blond replies mysteriously. “Aren’t you gonna let me in?”

“I want to know what is inside that box,” the Briton says firmly, irrational fear creeping up his spine. He doesn’t even know what he is afraid of anymore – everything and anything seems to send him off into panic attacks, and he has no idea why, and it frustrates him and he doesn’t ever want to show that weak side to Alfred.

“Something awesome,” Alfred says, frowning a little. “You’ll love it, promise.”

Arthur wants to move, because by God, he trusts Alfred more than anyone else, but his body won’t respond and his eyes are glued to the box. Alfred gives a soft chuckle and steps forward, bodily picking the Briton up and slinging him over one shoulder.

“Unhand me at once!” Arthur cries then, predictably, and begins to squirm. His ribs ache and his bones creak, not fully recovered from the beating his country has taken, but he cannot let himself be taken without a fight. “Don’t you dare go about bringing strange boxes into my home, you twat!”

Alfred has the nerve to whistle as he makes his way through the doorway and into the living room. He gently dumps the angry man onto the couch and takes a seat next to him. “Go on, open it!” he says cheerfully, and after a moment of glaring Arthur hesitantly complies. 

The box rests on Alfred’s lap, so Arthur kneels on the couch next to him and leans over him, one hand on the American’s shoulder to steady himself. He peels back the tape and lets out a small gasp, hand immediately shooting to the sealed, familiar tin. Alfred laughs softly as Arthur cradles the tin of tea to his chest, jostling the box just enough so that Arthur can spot another tin nestled within the cardboard. He turns grateful eyes towards his very own American hero, and whispers, “I… I… Alfred…” and Alfred shushes him with a soft, chaste kiss, because he always, always understands, even when Arthur himself doesn’t.

“Aren’t you gonna look at the rest of it?” Alfred asks, nudging him lightly in the ribs. Arthur winces and refuses to let go of the tea, so Alfred folds back the flaps of the box and tilts it slightly towards the Briton.

“C-chocolate?” He stares at it, then inches forward and picks it up. He laughs in delight. “Do you have any idea how much of a luxury these items are right now?” Sweets are hard to get a hold of, and Arthur doesn’t know whether to be touched by Alfred’s thoughtfulness or offended by his conceited show of wealth, however unintentional it may be. 

“I know you guys have it tough,” Alfred said, running a soothing hand through his lover’s hair. “But you’re doing so well. I mean, you held on for the entire war, and you’re still holding on even now. You are so goddamn tough, Artie.”

Arthur flushes at the American’s words, and half-heartedly bats at the hand. “Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, but he isn’t actually angry, because he knows that to Alfred, the shortening of another’s name indicates closeness and affection. That doesn’t mean that he can bring himself to call the stupid git ‘Alfie’, though.

He peers into the box again, and comes across some more tins and jars. He squints at the labelling before glancing up at Alfred, who shrugs.

“I couldn’t get you any fresh stuff, ‘cause it’d kinda go bad before I got it to you, ya know? So I got you canned fruits. And I mean, I know that you’re rationing bread now but I got you some jelly as well. You need some sugar, not that you’re not sweet enough already, heh, but you’re awful skinny! And I brought—”

Arthur leans forward and rests his forehead on the American’s broad shoulder, waiting for the rambling to cease. Though rather loud and silly and sometimes immature, Alfred is so sweet that Arthur can’t think of a single reason why he could deserve someone so wonderful. He breathes in the familiar leather scent and lets his eyes flutter closed. If only he could stay here forever – forever, and ever, and ever, until the end of the world, and then beyond that. He feels Alfred’s arm, warm and solid and strong, slide around his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Alfred is saying, sounding panicked. “Oh shit, you’re not crying, are you? I’m sorry, Artie, Arthur, what did I do? Is it what I said before? I’m sorry, I don’t mind if you’re skinny…”

“I’m not crying,” he assures his lover, lifting his head and sending him a crooked half-smile. “I was just thinking.”

“Oh,” Alfred sighs in relief. “That’s good. Now look at what else I bought for you! Aren’t I the best boyfriend ever?”

Arthur pulls a face. “That is a terribly juvenile word,” he says, but of course he doesn’t mean it. Because it makes his heart soar to have Alfred talking about their relationship out loud, to have him give it a name and– and–

“Would you like me to call you ‘lover’ instead?” Alfred asks teasingly, leaning his face in close. “We’re lovers, right? But we’re also boyfriends. We’ve got a Special Relationship, Artie. What’s wrong with saying it?”

“N-nothing,” the Briton mumbles, hiding his face in Alfred’s shoulder again. When he feels that his face is no longer red enough to rival the roses in his garden – had they still been there, that is – he finally looks up to see Alfred digging through the box. 

“Powdered eggs!” the younger blonde announces, holding up the packet triumphantly. “Awesome, right? There are more of those in there. And there’s soap, too! I dunno if you needed that, but I heard it was being rationed too, so I thought I may as well bring some.”

He pulls out other items, too. Milk powder and sugar and biscuits and more, until Arthur can’t stand it any longer. He lunges forward and kisses him.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling against the other’s lips.

“No problem, babe,” Alfred responds immediately. “What kind of hero would I be if I left my beloved to starve?”

Arthur clutches at Alfred’s leather jacket, and feels kisses being peppered across his forehead, his eyebrows, his nose, his cheeks – it’s intense, more intense than when he had sex with others in the past, because now there is so much emotion, so much love, and he feels as if he is drowning. 

He doesn’t mind drowning, as long as Alfred is with him.

Alfred pulls away then, smiling down at Arthur. His smile isn’t the usual cocky grin; it’s gentler, softer, less certain and more hesitant. “I’m always here for you, you know?” he says, a tad awkwardly. “You’re never gonna be alone again.”

Arthur is touched but doesn’t want to become emotional, so instead he settles on feeling guilty. Why should he get these luxuries, when too many of his citizens are homeless, and starving, with children who are much too thin and who have been forced to act far more mature than their age, and men who will never return? Why should Alfred be using his precious time to fly across the ocean and bring him a box of supplies? Why should he matter so much to someone who has everything?

Alfred must notice, because he suddenly cups both of Arthur’s cheeks in his hands and leans in close. “I love you,” he says simply, reassuringly. “I love you so much, Arthur. I’ll love you forever. Always have, always will.”

“I love you, too,” Arthur whispers in response.

He’ll hold onto this for as long as he possibly can. He silently promises himself that he will do whatever he can to keep his boy, his man, his America, his Alfred, from wanting to leave him again. Alfred says ‘forever’, but they will just have to wait and see how long ‘forever’ really is.


	2. Autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, it's been over a year. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me!

It takes him several tries before he can slide the key into the lock, and several more minutes until he can get the door open. Arthur staggers into the kitchen, shrugging off his suit jacket and rubbing at his eyes tiredly. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, that Parliament can be full of grown men yet still make him feel as if he spent a day babysitting a bunch of toddlers. And the younger, newer members don’t even take him seriously, because they’re older than he looks and they don’t want to relinquish power to someone whom they think is beneath them. Of course, he can’t just go around telling everyone that he is the human embodiment of the land that they live on. That secret is only for royalty and top-ranked officials.

He slumps into the chair next to the telephone as he loosens his tie. As if on cue, it begins to ring and he eagerly picks up.

“Hello?”

“Artie!”

His lips twitch up into a smile. Alfred insists on calling him every night, no matter how busy he is. Arthur misses him greatly, and receiving these calls reassures him that Alfred misses him too.

“Hello, Alfred,” he says softly, closing his eyes and cradling the receiver gently against his ear. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” comes the slightly crackly reply. “Doing awesome here, babe. How about you? You doing okay? You sound burnt out.”

“I’m exhausted,” he admits, leaning his forehead against the cool countertop. “Completely and utterly knackered.”

“Maybe you should take a break,” Alfred immediately suggests. “You know, have some time off. You’ve been working your cute little ass off for God knows how long. It’s only fair that you get some time to rest, right?”

“Don’t be silly,” Arthur chides. He pauses for a moment, before continuing. “I’d like to, but… there’s too much to do. I can’t stop until I’ve finished everything, Alfred.”

“Yeah, I know.” There’s a sigh. “I just wish that you weren’t worked so hard, you know? I mean, your government is there for a reason. Aren’t they doing anything?”

They discuss post-war matters for a little bit longer, then switch to other random topics. Alfred rambles about his new favourite hamburger shop, and his new car, and new everything. He stops periodically to ask Arthur questions, to get him to comment, to just hear him speak. Arthur loves the sound of his beau’s voice, but can’t help feeling a tad jealous at how well America is doing in comparison. He quashes the feeling, because he doesn’t want something like that—something that Alfred can’t help—to come between them.

“Hey,” Alfred says after a while. “You should probably go sleep. I’ve kept you up long enough, huh?”

“Mmm,” Arthur agrees drowsily.

“Good night, then,” the American laughs, but then his voice turns serious. “You can call me at any time, remember that. I’ll always pick up. I love you, Arthur.”

“I love you, too,” Arthur mutters back. “‘Night, love.”

He hangs up first, because they’ve gotten into too many arguments about who should hang up first, and he’s too tired to be playful tonight. He stumbles up the stairs and into his bedroom, where he goes through the motions of preparing for bed even though his mind is already asleep.

Their routine continues and although sometimes Arthur is too exhausted to utter more than a faint greeting, he is grateful for the calls.

* * *

 “Hey, have you spoken to Russia lately?”

 The strange question rouses Arthur from his half-sleep. Recently, Alfred has been alternating between ignoring Ivan’s existence and making disparaging remarks about their ally. Once-ally, Arthur muses. There has been too much tension coming between them all lately. The Iron Curtain does not help matters, either.  

 “Artie?”

 He blinks then, realising that Alfred has been waiting for an answer. “No,” he replies, his voice hoarse. His throat has been bothering him lately; it’s dry and irritated as if he’d breathed in a cloud of dust from the ruins of his cities. “No,” he repeats after attempting to clear his throat, “I haven’t spoken to Ivan.”

 There’s a strange pause on the other end of the line. Arthur reaches out to stir his cup of tea and lifts it to his lips, grimacing at the cold liquid. He can’t afford to waste it though, so he takes another sip to try and soothe his throat.

 “Well,” Alfred says, forced-cheer evident in his voice. “Let me know if you do, yeah?”

 Arthur frowns. Although it is not unlike Alfred to ask for strange, nonsensical favours, something seems a bit off.

 “Are you all right, my darling?” he asks finally, slipping into the coaxing tone he would use on Alfred hundreds of years ago.

 “Yeah, I’m good. Look, I’ve gotta go but let me know if you guys talk. And don’t believe anything that bastard tells you. Love you.”

 Before Arthur has the chance to respond, there’s a painful crackle as Alfred disconnects the call. He stares at the phone with wide eyes.

 Since when has Alfred been the one to hang up first?

* * *

 He doesn’t have much time to dwell on Alfred’s strange behaviour. After a sleepless night of exhausted tossing and turning, Arthur stumbles out of bed and prepares for another day. He brushes off his patched suit and dons his armour; not the cold steel armour of centuries past, but armour nonetheless.

His politicians are as unbearable as always, but he makes a special effort to pay more attention. Something is stirring in Alfred and although it hasn’t quite managed to frighten Arthur, it certainly is unsettling.

There are reports coming in from Eastern Europe; reports of Russia misbehaving in the wake of two World Wars. Arthur, knowing that there was no way things won’t escalate, wishes he had the energy to do something about Russia’s provocative movements in the East. For a brief moment, Arthur allows himself to wonder if Alfred knows something that he does not—if Alfred was hiding intelligence from him, despite their relationship, both personal and as countries.

He takes a nasty spill down a flight of stairs during the lunch break, a result of his knee buckling under old injuries at the most inopportune moment. It is a stark reminder to keep his head down for the time being. He lacks the strength to take on a new threat. He would lose, and his people would die. There is no need to intervene in Russia’s plans unless he makes his way too close to central Europe.

By the time he arrives home, his head is throbbing and his whole body is aching from the tumble. He’s been taking longer to heal from minor injuries, but that’s to be expected: the toll that the Second World War took on his lands—on his body—is far too great.

He slumps into the chair nearest the phone, and he waits. He wants nothing more than to hear the soothing tones of his beau’s voice, crossing land and sea just for him.

It’s 3AM when he blinks awake, his neck sore and his body shivering. He’s fallen asleep slumped in the chair. It takes him a moment, but then he realises. He’s exhausted, but not so much as to sleep through the shrill ringing of a phone right next to him.

Alfred didn’t call.

He blinks at the phone, worry gnawing at his chest. Is Alfred all right? Had something happened? His first instinct is to find out if America has been invaded, if Russia has done something to his most precious person—but then the phone rings, and after a long, wary glance, Arthur moves to pick it up. 

“Hello?” he answers it, his voice still hoarse from sleep. The other end of the line is completely, so after a few seconds Arthur clears his throat and tries again. “Hello?” he says, louder this time. “Who is calling, please?”

“Did you really think you could do that behind my back?”

Arthur yanks the phone from his ear, his heart suddenly beating fast. There is no mistaking that voice, but the tone is something he’d hoped to never hear directed at him again. Alfred is furious. With the phone held at this distance, he can still hear the tinny sounds of Alfred near-shouting into the phone. Slowly, cautiously, he brings the phone closer.

“—why are you so _stupid_ , I can’t believe I trusted you, how could you do that—”

There’s blood roaring in his ears and he feels lightheaded as he tries to follow what Alfred is saying. But all he can hear is Alfred’s accusations, _how could you do that to me_ , repeating over and over in his mind and the constant stress that he has been living under for far too long makes him snap.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re saying,” he says coldly, sitting up straight in his chair as if he could draw strength from good posture. His hands are shaking but his voice is firm. “But I refuse to be spoken to in such a way. It is 3AM, _America_. Good night.”

He slams the phone back down onto its cradle. He stays frozen there for a moment, then takes a deep breath as his shoulders slumps. Arthur tells himself not to worry, but it’s been a long time since he’s gone to bed without being secure in the knowledge that Alfred is happy and Alfred wants him.  

He doesn’t sleep that night, or the next, or the one after that—not until his body almost gives out from exhaustion.

Alfred doesn’t contact him.  


	3. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been... not quite a year? I'm getting better OTL
> 
> This story has gone down a different road to how I planned, but I hope you guys continue to enjoy this fic anyway. Thank you for reading! There's only one chapter left and it's going to be a big one!
> 
> Warnings for: bullying, paranoia, violence

Arthur paces.

Another session of Parliament is about to begin, but Arthur can’t seem to stop the shaking of his hands or the buzzing in his ears. He hasn’t slept well for the past week, not since he last heard from Alfred. He hasn’t eaten much either—his people need sustenance more than he does, after all—but he tries to ensure he can still attend meetings. He needs to make sure his country is doing all right. He needs to make sure that his people are recovering.

The politicians begin trickling in slowly, each taking their assigned seats and shuffling through papers with a false air of nonchalance and self-importance. The atmosphere in the room is tense. Arthur takes his seat in the back, ignoring the looks from some of the younger politicians. Only a few of his country’s leaders are privy to his existence; his King, of course, and his current Prime Minister.

He does his best to pay attention to the speakers, but it’s difficult when his entire body is drooping with exhaustion. His famous ramrod-straight posture is now slightly curved, his shoulders hunched with the burden placed upon them.

Eventually they call a recess. Arthur unsteadily staggers out of the room. He just needs some water, and then he will be fine. He has to be.

He reaches the tea room, and is dismayed to find that there are several younger politicians already lounging around with cups of tea. They are so young. The room falls silent as he stumbles in and heads straight for the kettle. He doesn’t need tea. He just needs a cup of hot water.

 _He just needs Alfred_ , a traitorous part of his mind whispers, but he pushes the thought away. He doesn’t need Alfred. This has nothing to do with the other nation. This is entirely Arthur’s business.

“Did we lose so many that they let drunkards in now?” someone sneers, and Arthur tenses while pouring the freshly-boiled water. He could ignore them. They are young and ignorant. He _should_ ignore them. 

“I beg your pardon?” he says instead, whirling around to face them. There are five of them in total, all with lovingly mended clothing and surrounded by faint wisps of their wives’ perfumes. Young, but not so much that they have been unaffected by the horrors of war.

“You’re a bloody embarrassment to all of us,” one of them, the ringleader, says. The boy—and yes, he is but a boy in all the ways that really count—steps forward and looms over Arthur. “We’re all working hard to help our country recover. What the hell are _you_ doing?”

Arthur opens his mouth to give the brat a piece of his mind, to say that there is _nobody working harder than he is_ to try and fix this country, to fix himself, to help his people—but his gaze runs over the fine lines appearing on the boy’s face, the faint scar above his brow and the thinness of his wrist where he grips Arthur’s collar, and he cannot. The boy is ignorant. It is not his fault. Everyone is stressed, and it is only human to want to take out that stress on another.

“I am doing my best,” he says carefully, “as are we all.”

It happens before Arthur can really process anything. The boy’s other hand comes up, knocking Arthur’s grip on the tea cup and causing scalding water to splash across Arthur’s throat and trail down his collar bones. Arthur jerks away with a sharp inhaled breath, his grip on the teacup faltering.

It shatters on the tiles as the boy’s friends finally step in.

“We ought to leave,” one of them says quietly, pulling the boy away by shoulder. “Honestly, Eddie, he’s not worth it.”

“It’s fine,” he says, “if someone asks, the stupid git did it to himself.”

They file out of the room, and Arthur is left blinking at the closing door. There is a roaring in his ears now, and his chest feels tight. He lifts a hand and presses his fingers against the burns littering his throat. They sting as he touches the tender areas, but Arthur tells himself that this is nothing. This tiny pain is nothing compared to the pain that his people have been through—are still going through. He can’t complain.

He quietly cleans up the mess and returns to the Chamber late, ignoring the mocking looks from the youngsters.

The days go by, and still he does not hear from Alfred. He isn’t even entirely sure what he’s done wrong. Everything had been going so well despite the distance and the consequences of war. He thinks back to the last few times they spoke, and wonders if he perhaps snapped at the other nation. He knows he can be contrary. But though Alfred has complained about his nature in the past, he has never taken any of Arthur’s words to heart.

 

* * *

 

The days go by in a steady haze. Life continues. His people hold their heads up high and march onwards towards better days.

Arthur sits in the back row during Parliament and listens in on meetings between his politicians and those from other nations. His notes are hasty scrawls with uncrossed ‘t’s and undotted ‘i’s and his mind is a blur.

The meagre weight that he managed to maintain during the course of the war has been steadily dropping from his frame like fat over an open fire. He has no appetite despite the gnawing pain in his abdomen. Arthur cannot bring himself to face the Queen, who clucks over him in worry, or the Princesses, who look at him with such sadness that he cannot bear it.

He knows he should focus on nothing other than restoring his country. But he cannot help wondering: what was it about him that drove Alfred away? He knows that he has faults. Far too many of them, in fact. Which one was the tipping point? Which one made him unbearable?

In all of his years, he has never had to worry about something like this. Never before has he felt so unworthy in his relationships. But Alfred is sunlight, and open skies, and the scent of a freshly ploughed farmer’s field right after rain. He wants Alfred more than he’s ever wanted anything before.

And he’d had him, but Arthur foolishly allowed him to slip away. Again.

He blinks and refocusses just as everyone begins to stand, shuffling their papers and peaking lowly to one another. The Prime Minister tries to catch his eye, but Arthur quietly slips thorough the crowd.

Maybe he should right Alfred a letter, he thinks absently. But that would never do. Just as he cannot be truthful and forward in his speech, he is wholly incapable of doing so in writing. He can’t risk leaving evidence, after all.

He’s pathetic.

As he shuffles his way up the front steps of his house, he wonders if he’s being selfish. Maybe Alfred deserves someone more suited to him. Someone more playful and affectionate and capable of giving themselves to him fully. Maybe Alfred deserves more than anything Arthur could ever offer him. Alfred deserves more.

The moment he steps through the front door, Arthur knows something is wrong. The faeries have long since left, retreating back to their woods to be with their own kind while the land heals. But the silence they left behind is no longer merely stifling; there is an ominous feeling in the air.

The door clicks shut behind him and he takes a few steps forward, making sure to tread lightly. The living room is empty, as is his study. He silently makes his way down the hall towards the kitchen.

Out of nowhere, a figure comes barrelling into him, forcing him back against the wall. Arthur kicks out viciously, his hands scratching at the muscular forearm pressed against his throat. It’s useless.

“A-America—” he rasps as crazed blue eyes meet his own. Alfred looks awful; his skin is pale with dark smudges under his eyes, and his eyes are glazed and bloodshot. His teeth are bared in a feral snarl as he presses all of his weight down on Arthur’s throat.

“Why are you siding with him?” Alfred demands hotly, eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

“Who?” The edges of Arthur’s vision are beginning to blur.

“That commie bastard. You chose him. Your guy Attlee’s real good buddies with Stalin, isn’t he?”

That is the moment that Arthur understands. He plants his back against the wall and kicks out with both legs, catching Alfred in the gut. His slight, war-torn frame is hardly enough to shift Alfred’s muscular bulk, but Alfred flinches. Arthur allows his momentum to drag him down until he is able to sink his teeth into the flesh of Alfred’s forearm.

Alfred howls in pain as he grabs Arthur by the neck and throws him into the opposite wall. Arthur’s head connects with a sharp crack, but he fights through the blinding pain and scrambles to one of his antique display cabinets. There’s a sabre tucked away in the back, still wrapped up in rope and oilcloth but if he can just get to it—

He turns around, blade unsheathed, and Alfred freezes.

“Are you insane?” Arthur hisses, spitting a mouthful of Alfred’s blood onto the floor. “Attacking me could be construed as an act of war—”

“Siding with him is an act of war!”

Alfred’s voice thunders through the house. Arthur winces, but his sword hand does not shake. Alfred is not himself. That much is obvious. The boy is so overcome with fear and paranoia, when he was the first one to drop a nuclear bomb—

“Bevin doesn’t support that viewpoint,” he replies slowly, dizzily, as his free hand dabs at a tender spot on the side of his head. It comes away wet. “And neither do I. Do you trust me that little, America?”

Something flickers behind Alfred’s eyes at the name, but the other nation doesn’t move. Arthur understands. Alfred is merely an infant in comparison to him. He does not yet know how to separate his feelings as a nation from his feelings as an individual. Arthur has seen this before, when Alfred refused to come to his aid during the War. He’d seen it again, when Alfred had ranted about Kiku as if he’d hated him, as if there was none he despised more in the world, just before he’d ordered the bombings. Arthur hadn’t realised, because he’d been so focussed on his own shortcomings. But it has never been about him.

Alfred is afraid.

“I won’t join him,” Arthur says quietly. He sways a little; his body is weak even when his mind isn't. “I promise you that. But I think you ought to go.” He takes a deep breath as something not unlike panic and realisation seeps into Alfred’s expression. “I will support you as England, the nation. But as Arthur Kirkland… I know now that we were never supposed to have this kind of relationship.”

Alfred looks like he wants to say something, to reach out to Arthur perhaps, but Arthur’s gaze and sword-tip do not waver.

“Leave,” he says, and Alfred obeys.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've done my research but still, please forgive any historical inaccuracies. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! And stick around for the next few parts!


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